


Temperance

by ClockworkCourier



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Drinking to Cope, Family Issues, overuse of em dashes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:14:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26160208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClockworkCourier/pseuds/ClockworkCourier
Summary: John wonders what his brother would think of him now.terror_exe prompt: a confession can be a scurvy, john irving and the bottles of whiskey
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14
Collections: @terror_exe Flash Fest





	Temperance

Father once said that temperance is the balm of mankind, the cure for one thousand ailments scattered across the _corpus_ of humanity. He said it— _preached_ it, even long after Archibald grinned at John and showed him the store of whisky bottles in the study. “ _Cure for one thousand ailments,_ ” his brother whispered. John remembers Archibald reaching into the cabinet, his fingers brushing against the long neck of one bottle, jarring it a bit and sending the amber liquor into a fit of waves. John had panicked, grabbing Archibald’s wrist just as he felt the cold crawl of dread in his stomach. He hadn’t said anything, but the fear of discovery, the fear of _truth_ made words in the ether between them.  
  
Now— _Lord_ , if Archibald could see him.   
  
It’s certainly not temperance that soothes him and cures the aches in his soul. Temperance does not heal the bruises on his fingers that have yet to abate, but instead spread like ink stains across his knuckles, reminding him of his faults and shortcomings. It doesn’t stop up the blood in his mouth, the aches in his head.   
  
Sometimes, he imagines what he would say to his younger brother if he were to meet him now. Their last meeting was bittersweet, that thick curtain of something unspoken and terrible between them as Archibald looked at him with guarded eyes. Helen—unfailingly and unflinchingly kind—took one of John’s hands in her own, and John could not mistake the tremble in her fingers. “ _I will say what he will not,_ ” she’d said. “ _We will miss you terribly_.”  
  
John’s tongue feels loose now, the whisky undoing the secure sailor knots holding the whole contraption in place. If Archibald were a sailor—  
  
(He never would have been. His constitution was poor, his lips turning blue at the slightest suggestion of a chill. The Arctic would have killed him.)  
  
John imagines them meeting in this tiny room, Archibald laughing as he critiques John’s selections of books. A Scott, a Burns, and then—  
  
“Euclid. Of course,” his brother would say over a cockeyed grin. “The great poet of nature and science. Has there ever been a greater muse?”  
  
A book of sermons from a parish near Falkirk, given to him by Lewis as a parting gift. A book of prayers read so thoroughly that certain pages are at risk of coming loose. And—  
  
He can see the blue book in Archibald’s hands—delicate, fine-boned, bird-like—his fingers skipping from one page to another. His eyes, as deep and blue as open water, would flicker up to John with that warm cast of pure amusement. And his tell, that quick one-two rap of his index and middle fingers on the page, the sure sign that he’d stumbled upon a wonderful thought. “’The greatest sign of fortitude is the welcomed restraint of temperance.’ Is it?” he would ask. Then those clever eyes would go to the little compartment under John’s bed.   
  
What did Archibald know about him? What confessions died on John’s tongue, but were heard in Archibald’s ears? John’s often pondered, wondering if the rift between them was less about their conflicting personalities, and more about—  
  
(“How many times have you lied to me?”)  
  
(“I wish, for once in your life, you would say what you mean!”)  
  
(“You can trust me. You can _talk_ to me, John. When have I ever given you a reason not to?”)  
  
He takes a drink. The whisky stinks of smoke, but goes down his burning, aching throat with no resistance. It does not cure him.   
  
There is no cure for this.


End file.
